


Cheating

by Imagine_Me_and_breathe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Death, M/M, My First Fanfic, Sadness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-22
Updated: 2016-10-22
Packaged: 2018-08-23 21:19:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8343199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imagine_Me_and_breathe/pseuds/Imagine_Me_and_breathe
Summary: The melting crunch of a bullet to the head is not something John will hear again.  You see, when playing a game you have to let your partner believe that you'll play by the rules (twisted and slightly deranged rules, yes) until they get bored, get lazy, and give the perfect time to cheat.  Unfortunately John was a perfect pawn in this particular game of chess, and may have just given Moriarty the short satisfaction he wanted.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So this is the first fanfiction I'm somewhat comfortable with sharing, so I'm sorry if you don't like it. I know it's really short and I'm sorry about that.  
> Please, please, please tell me on what to improve on if you see anything that needs changing!  
> Oh, and thank you for reading. x

A gunshot rang through late night London, and was stifled by the silence of a street waiting to hear another. A bedroom door burst open as the famed Sherlock Holmes scrabbled to the crime scene, which was unfortunately doctor John Watson's bed. Sherlock glanced around before surveying the body before him. 'Stupid, stupid, stupid,' he repeated in his head. He had already begun putting the pieces together. The audacity to fire a gun without a silencer, the nerve to enter his home, the intelligence to wait until he had just dozed off before making their move, resulting in sheer frustration and guilt.  
Sherlock sat on the bed and felt John's cooling cheek, holding his jaw and pressing his forehead against John's like he had always wished he could do, cradling John's head on his lap as Sherlock kneeled on the bed. 'John.' His lips formed the words but he was unable to make a sound, silent tears filling his eyes and threatening to slip.  
"John." He tried again, this time a weak strangle of a voice managed to escape in a hoarse moan.  
His cheeks were wet now, and his hands were shaking. Sherlock took the nearest phone (John's) and called the first number he could think of.  
"Mr Watson?" An immediate and slightly irritated response.  
"Mycroft."  
"Sherlock? What are you using Watson's mobile for?"  
"H-he... Moriarty. He said he wouldn't touch him. He said it was part of the game. Mycroft I-"  
"Jesus, Sherlock. Stay there, I'm coming."  
Sherlock cut off the phone, now standing above the bed and wiping away tears only to smear warm blood across his face. Not that he cared. He stumbled to the door, light headed and all, and left the bedroom and John. He leant against the walls as he headed to the living room, hands leaving faint red smears as he finally reached the handle and collapsed on it, placing all his willpower to turn it and fall through, barely managing to stand.  
A disappointed 'tsk' came from John's chair. Sherlock slid his eyes upwards and glared through hair that was matted with blood, and the red haze of anger that was falling upon him. "You know, Sherlock," a dead, rolling tone droned into his head. "I'm rather disappointed with you."


End file.
